


Cher Confident

by arseneur_bread



Category: Arsène Lupin - Maurice Leblanc
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Light Angst, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-01-25 10:47:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21355000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arseneur_bread/pseuds/arseneur_bread
Summary: All the things that have been left unsaid, unbeknownst to anyone but myself, and now you.[ Drabble Collection for the Arsène Lupin Novels. ]
Relationships: Arsène Lupin & Narrator (Arsène Lupin - Maurice Leblanc)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 20





	1. Lupin + Narrator - The Narrator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jean Daspry makes the acquaintance of a lonely journalist.

Tell me, the kind of man that I am. The villainous burglar who reaps upon the pockets of others, the wicked phantom which the officers of justice could never keep under lock and key? Or the gallant adventurer of tales that have often been alluded amongst the newspapers, whose face and name shifts and changes with every account, every narrative – that his mere existence seems to be but a fable and legend born from the fallacies of the law? 

And what of the man between the written lines, the things which were left within the cracks, remained gathering dust under the words penned by the hand of another? 

All the things that have been left unsaid, unbeknownstto anyone but myself, and now you. 

This shall be a secret between the two of us, how exciting! Let us begin. 

*

It was on a certain winter night when I first saw him, seated alone and anxious. He glanced with rapid succession at the hands of the clock, waiting. Were his friends late? Had he the unfortunate fate of being forsaken by a lady? How terrible! To be by oneself at the pub, lost amongst the drinks of sorrow and the engulfment of emotions. Perhaps it was the unlikeness that contrasts the isolated figure, surrounded by the lively company of the club. I could not help as my own sympathies lead me towards his table, I gave him a smile as I sat down. 

He started at my presence, curious eyes glancing over my profile. 

“Apologies my friend, the tables were full,” I said, “I hope you don’t mind- “ 

“No, no,” he said, “please, feel free.” 

Seemingly defeated, he downed a glass of whisky and signalled for the waitress. I caught glimpses of his manuscripts, numerous pages spilling across the table top. A writer, then? He was dressed smartly, a good suit paired with a hard-felt hat. His hair was arranged neatly, yet they are beginning to come apart at the edges as if sensing their master’s distress. “Bad day?” I asked sympathetically.

He heaved a sigh, as if glad to be given a chance to relieve his distress, “Quite. Yes, quite..” 

I nodded along as he paused to let the waitress refill his glass, then I, as well, took the chance to ordering a soda and light dinner for myself.

“Oh, I understand!” I said, “beginnings of the week are always the hassle, aren’t they? Goodness knows all the troubles that come rolling out of who-knows-where- The Heavens above must be having quite a laugh at us and our pitiable cries…”

The man seemed to be amused by my banter and cracked a smile through his miserable expression, “Well I hope that they find my ill-luck a suitable entertainment. My troubles, unfortunately, don’t stop themselves at the beginning of the week, although I suppose today is no less worse than the day before. A sliver of a silver lining!” 

“Goodness!” I exclaimed, “that’s horrible!” 

“Quite!” He repeated, “The fortnights of sleep I’ve gone without to slave away on writing these articles, while my editors are off sitting comfortably on my hard work! Why, he didn’t even bother to show up – I suppose my time is up! They shall be off finding a new writer while I waited here like a fool, happily out of their way.” 

“Why you poor soul!” I said as he drank another glass. “So, you work as a writer, my fine fellow? Or perhaps a journalist?” 

“Journalist,” he confirmed, “I write articles and reports of the police and their proceedings. Or, I did once before…”

He looked not without a fair amount of bitterness at his dishevelled papers, the stature of a man down upon his luck and resentful at the world. Admittingly curious, I took it upon myself to have a look at his work, of which he allowed with a shrug. He returned his attention to his glass as I contemplated his writing in silence. Finally, I placed my hand upon his shoulder firmly and said: 

“Listen to me, my friend—and understand that I do not say this lightly—you have a fine knack for words. A true talent! Yes, I daresay that your luck has turned around, for I happen to have close relations with a certain newspaper—_l’Écho de France_—perhaps you’ve heard of it…”

He hesitated, his face filled with a mixture of amazement and uncertainty, of which was followed by glimmers of hope as quickly as the surprise came over him. I could see the pattern of his thoughts forming behind his skull as he considered his reply. After all, what has he to lose? An unhappy job from which he is certain to fall? Why should he refuse the perfect opportunity of which chance has bestowed upon him? 

“And for whom should I give my thanks to?”

I handed him my card, “Jean Daspry. And you, monsieur…?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, I’m now desperate enough to write fics for this non-existent fandom. 1900s English is fun to write in though.


	2. Lupin + Gilbert - The Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “On the day when I am tired and disappointed and weary of life, I will come to you down there, in your little Arab house… In that little white house, Clarisse, where you are waiting for me…”

Before I begin, I would like to bring your mind to the two events that, during its time, caused great commotion amongst the public, of which I’m sure many are still familiar with. Yes, the two events succeeding from the ghastly affair that began with the murder of the millionaire, Rudolf Kesselbach. The first, concerns the two unveilings of a certain Russian Prince but much more importantly, that of the Chief Detective, M. Lenormand. Second, the official confirmation of Arsène Lupin’s death, of which the police and the law were eager to bury away like the ashes of the building where he was found. 

The proceeding that came to pass at the interval of those incidents, unrevealed to the general masses, is the one I’ve set to illustrate here…

*

“Pardon me, but are you perhaps lost, monsieur?”

Had I the energy I would’ve been embarrassed, to be caught wandering listlessly and lost, lead only along by a desperate ember of hope like a disjointed puppet on thin wires. But yet how far have I fallen! For I no longer had the strength to protest nor pride to upheld, everything else seemed small and insignificant in the face of the crushing blows I was dealt by fate. Instead, I bowed my head and said,

“Yes… I am looking for a place… A house… Or no, just someone.”

“I see. I am well acquainted with this area, I shall be glad to be of service to you. For whom are you looking for? Perhaps I would know him.”

“A woman,” I corrected him, “a woman with grey hair… Someone for whom I have immeasurable passion. She is my only hope left… and it is of the most importance that I find her.”

“Oh!”

I realized that I’ve said too much, like a scatter-brained magpie, the words that I could not stop spilling out of my mouth without the least of my conscious thought. I had to look away from his pitying gaze, unable to accept the pathetic creature I’ve must’ve seen to be in his eyes. Eager to divert the point of attention and ease my emotional turmoil, I said:

“I’m certain she lives nearby this area, just down this road somewhere yet…”

“Do you know her name?” the man inquired, “I’ve lived here for quite some time and know many friends that I could- “

He was interrupted by the appearance of a child, no more than 8 or 9, full of liveliness and pluck as he leapt upon the man with great familiarity. They bear strong resemblance to each other, it was not hard to see the relation between the father and son as the man began to chastise the child: 

“Goodness, have you no shame? Surely you remember what I’ve told you before, running from your mother again, Arsène…!”

I did not catch the rest of his words, so struck and startled was I by the announcement of my name, Arsène! Yet it was addressed not to me. It was hardly uncommon for men to bear similar or identical names, after all, there are only so many in the world that such coincidence is hardly an occurrence to be in awe of. Nevertheless, that instant of shock seemed to have awakened a far-off memory, left dusting away in some dark cranny of my head until this moment.

Yes, I recognized him now, this man. Oh, how had he changed! Not so much in appearance—I easily identified him once I raised my head and saw his features in the full light—but in both heart and soul, that I’ve failed to recall him through my tired senses. Happier, with the spirit of an honest man, a loving father, as he picked up the child with infinite delicacy and affection despite the previous act of disobedience.

“My apologies for my son, monsieur! He can be quite a handful… Now, Arsène, what do you say to the gentleman?”

“I’m sorry,” the child said compliantly, through a bright smile and not at all bashful.

“There is no need, he’s a fine young man,” I said.

“Oh no,” the man insisted, “An apology is the least this little rascal can do! Do you see that Arsène? The kind gentleman has yet to accept your apology, what do you say to that? Why, there’s your mother now!”

From the distance, I could pick out a woman hurrying towards us with haste, no doubt the man’s wife and mother to the little Arsène. However, my eyes were drawn to the figure behind her, trailing after the first woman with much less urgency. Her hair and visage were hidden by a dark sun hat, yet there was no question in my mind as to her identity. For it was her, the woman I’ve resolved to find. Even with all the years that had passed between us did she still lingered in my heart, her name and face being the one I recall with crystal clarity after my terrible moments of despair.

But I could not move, all the words I’ve sworn to say to her on the road to here, certain to win her back, are collected within my throat, trapped. Something heavy blocked their escape as I watched her walking arm-in-arm with an unknown man by her elbow, smiling and laughing.

“I’m sorry for interrupting your conversation,” the child said, this time with firm sincerity and less jest.

“I accept your apology,” I replied with great effort, then to the man, “he shall no doubt grow into a respectable gentleman, I’m sure. Please… send regards to your mother and your brother, Heracles…”

“Heracles?” the man echoed, perplexed. “Surely you’ve been mistaken monsieur, I do not have a brother by that name.”

“No,” I said quietly, “I’m sure.”

Making use of the momentary distraction as his wife caught his attention, I slipped away with tremendous will-power. I had nothing else on my mind at that moment than to get away, to compel my aching limbs forward, carrying on with them my throbbing heart.

“Farewell,” I said, “Farewell Gilbert. Farewell, Clarisse, where you are no longer waiting for me…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ending sentence of the Crystal Stopper always had me thinking...


	3. Lupin + Narrator - Arsène Lupin’s Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lupin’s biographer moves on.

The visit had begun with a letter much like many others. It is a well-known fact that I share confidences with a select individual who, in turn, publishes my exploits to the general populace. How he had first became acquainted with the life of Arsène Lupin, along with our various encounters following that fateful event, have already been narrated in detail by his own words so I shall not dwell further upon it. No, the tale I seek to lay out today is not one of reunion but of parting.

We were sitting in the silence of his library, a place I’ve become quite familiar with in our lengthy years of friendship. During the period prior to this meeting, I had embarked upon many long travels and numerous undertakings, away from the eager eyes of the gallery. Yet, this was one of those rare instances which I’ve arrived of a time and setting of his own choosing.

There were already indications of what was to come under the particular circumstances of this rendezvous, foreshadowing that I had regrettably not paid mind to in the moment.

“What’s the matter?” I asked upon my arrival, “I must admit that the urgency in your letter was quite unexpected.”

“My apologies,” He said, “I hope I’ve not intruded upon your schedule.”

“Well, here I am regardless,” I replied with a laugh, attempting a joke.

“Ah! Forgive me…”

“Come now… Spare your old chap Lupin of the suspense…”

“Yes, well… I’ve found myself a new publisher, you see… Do you still remember? When I spoke of working on other stories?”

“As you’ve said,” I replied, “I believe it was the one about the earthquake…?”

He gazed off towards beyond the window where it overlooked the garden and amongst the greenery, there stood a little shed in the middle. It had only three walls, from which one could see the worktable and chairs held inside. It was an odd little dwelling, which despite its susceptibility in face of the weather, I’ve learned was his preferred confinement for work.

He began slowly:

“You have been a dear friend to me Lupin, truly. The time and adventures we shared together hold great value amongst my fondest memories and I owe you more than I could ever hope to offer back. It is my eternal debt and, yet… that is…”

His voice trailed off in hesitation, as if afraid of causing me offense or disrespect. It was a silly notion that I daresay gave me more insult, that he could take me as the type of ill-mannered, ungrateful men who would even dare to have a shred of indignant thought after being lavished in such heartfelt sentiments. I gestured for him to continue:

“Go on, old chap.”

A moment passed as he gathers himself before he firmly met my eyes with a grave conviction.

“I… am forfeiting my position as your biographer, Lupin.”

I made no motion, admittingly taken back by this statement. Of all the things, this was certainly not what I’ve would’ve foreseen nor prepared for. He continued:

“Throughout the years we’ve kept in contact, I’ve been sorting through the evidence of your exploits as they’ve appeared, organizing all the facts presented to me from both the public and yourself. With it, I’ve been faithfully recording and recreating your exploits, have I not? It was a fine and honourable job, and I have no regrets. But that’s all I’ve done.”

“Nonsense!” I protested, “you are much more than a mere biographer… I implore you to reconsider…”

“I’ve already made my decision.” He shook his head, “I believe it is best for us to cease communications from now on.”

I was inclined to step forward and detain him, to demand further explanations or to beseech him I did not know. I admit the unpleasant feeling of rejection nearly compelled me to give way to terrible impulses, resorting to bribes and lofty promises like I have with many others. But such lowly tactics I’ve enacted upon lesser men would only be slander in the face of his sincerity.

If I had been more attentive, more attuned to the changes in the emotions and life of my friend at the time, I would have known that it was his devotion to me that held him back from his true passions. The exhaustion from tirelessly echoing the tales of another man, unable to speak words of one’s own choosing; it is an impression that I could scarcely imagine.

“Your honesty honours you, my friend,” I said.

Sensing that nothing more could be spoken between us, I took up my coat and hat, bowing very lowly before stepping out the doorway…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said that I was going to write more for this fic? Me neither.
> 
> This based off of how IRL Leblanc got tired of writing Lupin at one point and tried to publish other works, I recall reading somewhere that he felt like Arsène Lupin's prisoner/shadow.


	4. Lupin + Beautrelet - Chance Encounter

“Forgive me.”

“Goodness my boy, whatever for?” I said, unprepared for this sudden show of sentiment.

He was silent; and I did not plan on pursuing the matter further. Whatever regrets he may have held during the preceding years were of little concern to me, for I held no ill will towards the lad following our previous encounters. However, after a length of solemn stillness, he continued:

“For Mlle. De Sain – For her.” Beautrelet breathed out, “you’ve instructed me not to leave her side – to stay back. I had held her by the arms, yet I could not even – and she, she–“

“That’s enough,” I said, “the past is behind us.”

“But– “

“Answer me this, Isidore: on that day, was it you who held the revolver? Was it you who aimed and shot the bullet?”

“No,” he said softly.

“Then what is there to forgive?” I replied, taking great care to speak in an even voice in the face of the lad’s distress; and perhaps, in the hindsight as of recounting this, for myself as well. “Fate is a whimsical master who dictates our paths, a force of which even I had failed to overcome despite my countless efforts…

“But isn’t it wonderful, Beautrelet? From the ashes of that heinous tragedy, from that dreary night where we’ve parted our ways, is it not fate that had led us together again today? So smile, my boy…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a continuation of the last drabble, where Lupin finds a temporary biographer in Beautrelet since in canon, Isidore freelances for various newspapers and writes articles and pamphlets in his free time. But I couldn’t figure out how this would fit with the general canon-timeline so I gave up halfway, oops.


End file.
